


Alive, together, apparently sane

by Molly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: salt_burn_porn, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sam crawled out of the pit again for Dean.  But Dean isn't really where Sam left him...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive, together, apparently sane

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lazy_daze's prompt _what do you want from me_ for the salt_burn_porn community on LJ. A bit late, so I'm sliding in just _over_ the wire, and it's sort of porn in a giant schmoop setting... but I hope it still works. :)

Sam hallucinates instead of remembering. His brain is skipping a step somewhere, refusing to bubble-wrap the past and let time blunt the sharp edges of his memories. That's the problem with Hell -- everything's always happening _right now_. Once you go there, a part of you never gets to leave.

Understanding should help, but it doesn't. Sam always knows what's real and what isn't, but somehow hallucinating lucidly makes it worse. Lucifer isn't there, Hell isn't there, but the pain is. The horror is. And Dean isn't; that's the very worst part. Unreality falls between them like a heavy black curtain they can't draw back.

So, Hell has made Sam a little bit crazy. But only sometimes; only when he's tired or hurt, only when he's alone or asleep or afraid. The rest of the time, Sam thinks Hell has driven him relentlessly sane. Stripped off the bells and whistles, whittled him down to the bare essence of himself. He knows things about himself no one should ever have to know; and he knows _more_ about himself than most people are ever allowed. He knows what to value, what to put his trust in. He knows what he owns, and he knows what -- who -- owns him.

So, there's Hell, pitch black and burning fitfully just under his skin.

And then, further down, there's this:

  


* * *

  


"You ever think of painting her a different color?"

Dean's eyebrows crawl up his forehead, startled and horrified. Sam leans back against Bobby's work table, grease and tools spread out across its surface. He takes a pull from the neck of his bottle, appreciates the cold bite against his tongue, the cool slide down his throat. Everything that doesn't hurt is a blessing.

"Are you kidding me?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. Blue, maybe. Red?"

"Red," Dean spits out, shaking his head. "This here is a sophisticated lady warrior, Sam. I've rebuilt her twice from the wheels up with my own two hands, and now you want me to tart her up like a cheap whore. You break my heart, you really do."

"You've got issues," Sam tells him; it's not news, but it's a truth worth repeating. He puts his bottle down and pushes off the table, stands next to his brother with their shoulders brushing. "You want some help?"

Dean gives him the side-eye, like he's weighing up the difference between trusting Sam with his life, and trusting Sam with his baby. "I pick the music," he says finally.

Universal constants. Sam grabs a wrench and tucks a rag into his back pocket, turns his back on Dean and the car to hide his grin. "I know," he tells Dean solemnly. "That's how I know I'm home."

  


* * *

  


All things considered, Sam prefers sleeping upstairs to camping out in the Panic Room. Not that they didn't nice it up for him this time around -- he had a pillow and an IV drip and everything. But his short twin bed upstairs, with its threadbare sheets and thin mattress, is way more comfortable than the hunter's answer to the traditional padded room. He strips down to boxers, stretches his arms high and feels his muscles slide against each other, smooth and fluid and painless; he yawns so wide his jaw cracks, and turns when his brother pushes open the door. He's just in time to catch a familiar flash of heat in Dean's eyes, quickly averted.

"Bedtime for Bonzo," Dean says lightly. He turns his back to Sam, drops his wallet and his keys on the rickety makeshift dresser. "That's you, by the way."

"You want the right or the left?"

Dean shrugs. "Don't care. Pick whichever you want."

"That's taking your whole apathy trip a bit far, isn't it?" Sam takes a step closer -- close enough to smell the day's sweat rolling off Dean, the underlying Eau du Motor Oil soaked into his pores. "You can't even pick a bed?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "I can pick a bed," he says. "I pick whichever one comes without the lecture."

  


* * *

  


Dean snores. It's kind of awesome. Sam listens to it most of the night -- he's had weeks of sleep, he's got rest saturating his bones -- and only really drifts off when dawn starts to leak out over the treeline. He's in and out while Dean rustles around trying to be quiet, pulling his clothes on in the chill morning dark, putting his boots on and tying the laces blind. There's a quiet minute when everything is still, when Dean's eyes are heavy on him and the sun climbs up and up. The light is grey through the curtains when Dean turns to go, and Sam reaches out, grabs his wrist and holds him there. Dean's pulse flutters under his fingers, and Sam wants to pull him in, lift up the covers and tuck Dean in close, sleep away the rest of the day.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice is low and rough, and it strikes Sam that his name is the first thing Dean's said today. So he says, "Dean," to give it right back, and under his hand the muscles in Dean's arm shift, his hand clenches into a fist.

"What is it?" Dean says. "You okay?"

"I'm okay." Sam tugs him a little, and Dean takes an uncertain step closer. "I really am okay."

"Then how come you're hanging onto my arm like a life preserver?"

"Because we made it. You don't feel that?" Sam gives Dean's wrist a squeeze. "We made it."

"What I feel," Dean says, slowly pulling out of Sam's grip, "is a fucked up, nuked-up angel about to go all Mr. Clean on our asses, and we can't do a damn thing about it."

"But we're alive," Sam says. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands up right into Dean's space. "We're together. That's good, right?"

"It's intermission." Dean raises his hand, presses it against Sam's bare chest. Sam's heart thumps faster under it. "It is good," he tells Sam, and it's sincere, he can tell; he can feel it in Dean's eyes on him, in the sweetness of his voice. "It's good, but it's just for a minute, and then it's gone."

  


* * *

  


Sam likes touching a lot now. These long days, hunched under the hood of the Impala with the sun glaring down on his bare back, or with a light swinging pale and white over their heads, it's easy to stand too close to Dean, get just a little bit in the way. Dean jerks away a couple of times, right at the start, like Sam's diseased with hope and he's afraid he might catch it. He settles in, though -- they're the same, after all, blood and skin and bone -- and Sam takes what he needs. He sits too close; he leans against Dean when he's tired, and sometimes when he's not. He drinks from Dean's bottles, tangles their fingers together when they reach for a drink at the same time. The more he's with Dean, the less he's with Lucifer, a trade he's more than happy to make. And the more he's with Dean, the more he wears Dean down.

"I missed this," he tells Dean, sitting on the hood of the car under a half-full moon. Dean's shoulder is warm and solid against his, their legs stretched out together across the cool metal. "I missed you, you know?"

"What, in Hell?" Dean snorts, keeps his eyes on the stars, his face still and empty. "I bet you missed a lot of things in the cage, Sam."

Sam knocks his boot hard against Dean's, a warning and a promise. "Shut up, freak. I mean it. Not even counting the tropical vacations, it's been a while since we just hung out, you know?"

"Well, world-saving keeps a guy busy. I can pencil in another session after Cas finishes his little smiting spree, if you want."

"Jesus, Dean. Can you take a break from martyrdom for just one minute, please? I'm trying to say something, here!"

Dean's head thunks back once against the windshield, hard; then he sits up. "Can I at least go get some of the hard stuff first? There's not enough beer in the world for this."

"What _is_ it with you? What's it going to take to get through to you? I didn't crawl back out of the pit just to watch you fade out in front of me. I need you _here_." Sam levers himself off the hood of the car and comes around to Dean's side. "Can't you just... can't you just be here, with me, for whatever time we have?"

"No." Dean swings his legs over the side, like he's about to take off, but Sam gets in his way, brackets Dean's hips with his arms. Dean jerks in a sharp breath and says, "Sam, cut it out."

"No," Sam says. He pushes closer, too close for Dean to back off without falling over. He can feel Dean's breath against his face. "Dean, come on. Please."

" _Sam._ "

"We're alive. We're together. For the next ten minutes, we're both probably safe and sane. And I miss you, man; I miss _us._ Tell me I didn't get back everything else but that."

Dean shoves Sam's arm aside and climbs off the car, stalks toward Bobby's house like he might get there and just keep going. Sam's chest aches, a wrenching hurt deeper than he thought it was possible to feel up here. He braces himself against the car to keep from falling, lets his head drop down between his arms, and swallows down every breath like a bad-tasting medicine. It's so hard to be alone up here, walking around beside the empty shell of his brother. So pointless to go through the motions of family when he doesn't have one. Sam wonders if it was like this for Dean, those months before Death shoved his soul back in; if Dean forgot sometimes why he needed to keep breathing.

A gentle hand smoothes over the curve of Sam's spine, and very close to him, very very close, Dean says, "Sam? Hey."

Dean pulls Sam up, turns him around. Sam lets himself be moved, too tired to want more or push for less. Dean looks at him, his face shadowed, his eyes cautious. His hands are on Sam's shoulders, and he says, "I don't know how to do this," but he reels Sam in and gets his arms around him, awkward and strong, bullheaded. _Trying._ "I don't know what you want from me."

Sam chokes on a hysterical laugh, shuffles them until he can hold onto Dean, too. His skin is soaking up the touch like a desert soaks up rain, like he can fill himself up with it if he holds on long enough. Dean's warm under his hands, warm and real, _there_ , and the only thing Sam wants is more of it, all of it. Everything.

His hands are shaking when he pushes Dean back against the car. Dean's eyes are wide and shocky, but he's not fighting it, not anymore; he lets Sam do what he needs to, what they both want. His breath comes a little faster when Sam's fingers reach for the buttons of his shirt, but his mouth curves up in a smile.

"Well, hey," he drawls, letting Sam's hands do their work. " _Now_ I know what you want..."

Sam huffs out a shaky, crazy laugh and gives Dean a little shove. "Shut up. You don't know what it's been like."

Dean's eyes darken. He doesn't need any help getting his t-shirt off; he does that with his own hands. It's been so long since they let themselves have this, since they felt right enough to just take it. "Yeah, I do."

"I need you." Sam just says it; it's not a secret, and he's not ashamed. He's gone so far past hiding any part of this from Dean, he doesn't even remember what that was like. Dean's eyes slide away from his, and Sam curves a hand around Dean's jaw, draws him back. "It's a good thing. It's one good thing we have that nobody can take. Not even you," he says, his fingers tightening for a moment in warning, and Dean nods, his eyes wide, his face pale and open.

"Okay," Dean says, still nodding. "Okay."

  


* * *

  


Sam lays him back over the hood, pushes Dean flat, his chest a white plain against the new black paint. He spreads Dean's legs wide, thumbs open his jeans. Dean's eyes give off a dark shine in the moonlight, watching everything Sam does. His hips roll up, pressing his dick into the curve of Sam's hand, and Sam hisses out a breath at what that does to him. What it's always done to him.

"This is what I want," Sam says softly. Dean groans, a sound that reaches into Sam's gut and drags out an answer. "You're what I want. Just be here, with me. Just let me touch you." He leans in and runs his tongue up the length of Dean's dick, salt and slick and heat, and Dean shoves up into his mouth, too hard, just hard enough, just what Sam's been waiting for. He pins Dean down by the hips, slides his mouth down and sucks, fast and dirty. His dick drags against Dean's leg, and a crazy buzz of need and pleasure winds him up, tying him down to this stupid planet and this unkillable car and his brother, this frustrating, infuriating, necessary person who always wants exactly what Sam wants and never knows how to get it. Sam swallows Dean down, and Dean gives this shout, rough and deep, and Sam groans around his dick, does it again, because it's just that good for both of them. Everything about this is familiar and sweet, fills him up in all the dark places Hell hollowed out. Dean is falling apart under his hands, Dean is _there_ , alive and awake and with him. Finally, right there with him.

"You need it too," Sam says, soft and sure, pulling back to let Dean come down. He's got his own pants open, his hand squeezing tight to keep himself from coming completely unspooled, untouched. Dean comes off the car and shoves him back, pushes his hand away.

"Then let me have it," Dean says, just as quiet. He hits his knees and looks up at Sam like a promise, like a prayer. "Let me have you. Just let me have this one thing," and Sam doesn't think Dean's talking to him anymore, but it doesn't matter. Dean's got his mouth on Sam and it's hot and sweet, it's like heaven was supposed to be and never was, it's worth coming out of Hell for a dozen times. It's real. He puts his hands on Dean's face, rough stubble under his fingers, gasps at the scrub of Dean's tongue along the length of his dick; he wants to wrap himself around Dean like this forever, and never let go. Wants to hold on so tight nothing can ever get between them again.

Dean pulls back and says, "Come on, Sam. Let it go," and jacks him, pulls it out of him, smears the head of Sam's dick over his mouth and sucks it back in, sucks it all down. Sam does as he's told, lets it all out with a wrecked groan that drags the shadows out of him, leaves him empty and open and clean.

He collapses next to Dean, mouthing at his lips, draping himself against Dean's shoulders; they go down, a tumble of too many arms and legs in the dirt. Dean lets out a laugh, shoves Sam off and settles him back down right. Sam's shaking, afraid to let go, afraid to see the emptiness creep back into Dean's eyes if he does.

"Sam," Dean says, his eyes on the sky above them. Sam watches his face, waits, and waits; and it stays the same.

"I need you," Sam tells Dean, and like they're starting all over again, Dean smiles.

  


* * *

  


The car starts. The world doesn't end. The hallucinations don't go away. Sam's still a little more than a little bit crazy, but in the sweet spaces between the memories, he doesn't mind so much.

They're alive, and they're together, and they were never really all that close to sane. It works for them, when nothing else does.

 

  


* * *

  


.end

 

Feedback is always welcome! :)


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